


Vital

by Demus



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Bedroom Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demus/pseuds/Demus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'This was Tintin at his most honest; torn between the need to fill and the need to be filled, caught and ceaselessly shifting'. After a somewhat fraught adventure, Tintin and the Captain take some time to rediscover each other. Fluff and porn abounds! (Response to the 'Tintin as top' prompt on the meme)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vital

Captain Archibald Haddock, master of Le Chateau de Moulinsart and de facto lord of all he surveyed, had a theory – one upon which he was reluctant to expound – that his dear friend Tintin was, despite mass speculation upon the subject, _CaptainHaddocksexual_. Certainly, the boy had never shown any inclination towards another human being during their long acquaintance, and Haddock knew for a fact that there had been plenty of offers made.

Tintin was honest in his desire, earnest, and it appeared to be a source of constant surprise for him; his previous partners, he confided, the ones who'd (and didn't this just fester in Haddock's jealous, grasping heart?) _got to him first_ , had inspired very little emotion beyond vapid lust. Perhaps before Haddock's fumbled, despairing confession, the concept of love had entirely passed him by. Tintin the reporter. Tintin the adventurer. Tintin the bachelor.

Not any more. He lay sprawled across Haddock's bed, flushed and winded, caught between fingers and tongue, rocking to that age-old, bones-deep rhythm. His feet were braced on the bed, hips stuttering as he tried to thrust against Haddock's strength, and the firm muscle of his thighs ghosted alongside the Captain's ears, twitching with every swipe of Haddock's tongue. This, _this_ was Tintin at his most honest; torn between the need to fill and the need to be filled, caught and ceaselessly shifting, his cock pulsing in the Captain's mouth even as the older man's fingers spread him wide open.

In truth, Haddock's knees were less fond of this position, given to twinging in the most distracting fashion, but he craved this, craved it with every dark instinct he possessed, and addiction had ever possessed the strongest hold over his actions.

He crooked his fingers inside his lover, causing Tintin to whine, and, satisfied he'd found what he'd been looking for, began to roughly massage that tiny patch of rougher skin, pressing his thumb hard into the crease behind Tintin's cock.

The lad yelped, his entire body bucking with the shock of it, and come spilled into Haddock's mouth in haphazard spurts, cock jerking against his tongue as he suckled.

“Oh,” Tintin said, somewhat hazily, when Haddock finally raised his head, working his tired jaw, to see his lover splayed across the entirety of the bed, thoroughly taken apart, tanned chest shuddering as he panted. “Oh my.”

Haddock laughed. He crooked his fingers again, stroking quivering walls of tight muscle to make Tintin squirm, then worked himself free, pressing a kiss to Tintin's left thigh as his knees flopped bonelessly open. “'Oh my' indeed. We're going to have to do some serious work on your stamina, my boy.”

“I'm sorry, Captain,” Tintin said, sounding nothing of the sort – if anything, he looked quite pleased with himself. His head was thrown back, displaying the clean lines of his neck, marred by a spray of purplish bruises from their recent encounter with an arms-trading megalomaniac, and Haddock averted his eyes from it, burying his nose into his lover's stomach. The scent of him, fresh and cleanly masculine, was soothing, as sweetly intimate as the slow softening of Tintin's cock, and stubby fingers combed their way through Haddock's hair, Tintin no doubt guessing at his discomfort. 

“They don't hurt any more,” he said, quietly, and Haddock sighed.

“If I'd got there sooner-”

Tintin's finger tightened, tugging for a second in reprimand, then resumed their gentle stroking. “You saved me,” he said, in that tone that brooked no argument, and Haddock glanced up to meet a serious green-eyed gaze. Tintin studied him – inscrutable, the lad could be so confounded hard to read sometimes – then his eyes crinkled as he smiled, that singular smile that had lost none of its sweetness. “Kiss me,” he demanded, boyish once more, shredding the moment of severity as though it had never been. 

Haddock obeyed. 

The years had taught him that attempting to refuse Tintin was like trying to stem the tide or knock the stars from the sky; impossible in the way that their adventures never were, impossible meaning 'no human could ever achieve this' as opposed to 'give Tintin five minutes and it'll all be settled'. He crawled up his lover's body, pausing only to taste the edge of Tintin's ribs as the lad leaned up on his elbows, craning for his lips. 

They kissed as though it were new to them, as though they hadn't measured and measured again the heat of each other's mouths. Tintin sank back beneath him, tilting his head as his tongue slithered hot and suddenly needy alongside his own, his hands skittering across Haddock's chest. Haddock groaned as he pressed closer, his cock rubbing against Tintin's thigh, and the lad twisted under his weight, sliding his leg up to force a second groan from the Captain's throat.

“Treacherous tormentor,” Haddock managed to grunt, when Tintin released his mouth, and the reporter shook with laughter.

“What was that about stamina, Captain?” he teased, arching his back, the give of his stomach and the press of his chest and the fierce, yearning ache of him; Haddock kissed him again, couldn't not, this marvellous creature pinned, restless, to his sheets and wrapped so tightly about his heart. Tintin growled into his mouth, hips canting, and the sudden tensing of his muscles was all the warning Haddock got before he was flipped onto his back, his lover rolling on top of him with a “Hah!” of triumph. 

“I have you now,” Tintin said, baring his teeth in a mischievous grin, heavy as he settled himself, moist heat and weighted strength; Haddock groaned, his hands full of sun-burnished skin, tried to rock up and couldn't, groaned again when Tintin ground against him, the reporter's hands finding his shoulders to hold him down.

“Always,” he managed to gasp, even as his hips pitched with the frustrated desire to thrust. 

Tintin's fingers twitched, tightened, then he said, “Love-” and stopped, the endearment queer as it tumbled from his lips; they didn't love with words, as others might, they loved with deeds and touch and the language of silences between words, so Haddock reached to cup Tintin's cheek, smooth against his sea-hardened palm, and said, “Yes.”

And it took careful preparation, this lovemaking of theirs – it took the filthy swiftness to fuck the edge off Tintin's need and even filthier faineancy to bring them together, Haddock fighting not to squirm as Tintin coaxed him onto his front and kissed the base of his neck and lavished rough caresses to the tight muscles along his spine, whispering, “Oh, Captain,” into the small of his back as his fingers, slick with lube, slid between the Captain's legs.

Slowness, then, because patience was Tintin's virtue. His fingers moved in tiny circular motions, massaging, and Haddock relaxed, his arousal a steady glow as he was spread open for the first tentative push. “I'll not break, you know,” he grumbled, impatience ever his vice, and Tintin's lips smiled against him.

“Not yet,” the lad quipped, promise dark in his voice. Haddock swallowed hard, anticipation electric in his veins, and his legs relaxed even further, causing Tintin's breath to huff in silent laughter.

Teasing, teasing, lube so cold it made him hiss a curse and the slow stretch of his muscles until, “Lift your hips, lift-” then, when he obeyed, at last the press of Tintin's cock, his lover's voice giving out as he came up on his knees, sinking back with the furious, delicious burn of being breached in the best way, Tintin's hands slippery and fumbling for grip, Tintin's breaths as loud as his own as they lurched together.

Haddock buried his face in the sheets, forearms braced over his head as he rocked, open-mouthed and gasping for air as Tintin pushed into him, deep but not nearly deep _enough_ ; he snarled, flexed his hips and slammed back, startling a yell from his lover. Tintin scrabbled frantically at him, fingers clawing at his skin as though for balance, and then he was moving. There was no sweetness in it, nothing of his earlier caution, just fire and force and the jabbing thrust of his cock as he _took_ and _took_. 

Honest in his desire, earnest in his need; Haddock heard himself swearing, nonsense spilling from his lips as he matched thrust for thrust, filled by Tintin, aching with him, Tintin's cock and Tintin's hands and Tintin's body lean and strong at his back as he was ruthlessly, desperately taken.

Stamina be damned – he growled as Tintin's hand found his cock, growled as he was vigorously stroked, couldn't last....

He came with a strangled cry, Tintin's voice joining his bare seconds later, the last violent tremors tumbling them both to the bed, utterly spent.

“Captain,” Tintin murmured, sleepy-soft with satisfaction, and Haddock felt a hand entwine with his, tugging it free of the abused sheets to wind their fingers together. “Are you all right?”

“Aye, _mon cher_ ,” he managed, once he'd marshalled his wits, and Tintin nuzzled between his shoulderblades, not quite able to reach any higher and seemingly loathe to pull free of Haddock's body just yet.

There would be backache in the morning. Backache and a fair amount of complaining from his abused knees, but for now there was Tintin, golden with afterglow, and really, what else could a man ask for?


End file.
